Bittersweet Symphony
by w.s.caer
Summary: “Hey,” he’ll rumble, barely above the threshold of hearing. Usually he grins and his eyes do this thing where they go soft and unfocused when he looks at her. It’s tender and delicate and 100 other things Mark Sloan is not.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

* * *

He doesn't quite know what to label this feeling that's been wriggling around in his gut lately. Partly because he thinks he already knows what it is, and he just can't go _there._ Avoidance has never really been his thing, but it's working out well so far and, hell, now he sees why his fellow ex-mistress clings to it like a blanket. He thinks that maybe he should be a man and grow a pair, but then Derek is at the end of the hall (talking to said ex-mistress) and the nerve he'd been working up to tell him to go to hell suddenly vanishes. This is _Derek._ And since he slept with his wife, Mark isn't really entitled to an opinion anymore.

He promptly turns around. The on-call room on the third floor has fluffier pillows anyways.

* * *

The next time he sees her (the third time that day but really, who's counting?), it's at Joe's. The interns are whining over their beers (they're still banned from the OR) and it's too late to turn back because he's stupid enough to risk looking over at the same time her head swivels towards the door. Their eyes lock.

One second.

Two.

It's ridiculous he's in this situation, and feels like an idiot because this locking eyes thing only happens in movies and seriously, who ever heard of Mark Sloan _gazing_ at someone? They're something like friends though, since he teased her about O'Malley and she told him to shut up. So he smirks in response to the unsure smile he's pretty sure is for him. She laughs at something said by one of the interns and just like that, he's no longer the centre of her attention.

_Don't think about. Don't think about it. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think._

_Don't._

_I didn't._

* * *

It's not only doctors and nurses that come to Joe's. The bar sees its fair share of newcomers every night. He's had one too many scotch, his fingers have a slight tingling through them.

The damn interns are still here (don't they ever study?). It also means _she's_ still here and he isn't quite comfortable admitting why he doesn't want to leave the stool where his ass is probably making an indentation. He motions to Joe for another glass and because he's so busy being pathetic, he misses the relatively handsome young man now making small talk with Lexie. What he _doesn't_ miss, is the mischievous look she's giving the stranger along with a flirtatious smile that has Mark shooting daggers at the young punk.

He's not a man of violence. He needs to remember that. But something primal awakens in him, and all he can dwell on is the satisfying crunch the boy's nose is going to make (courtesy of his fist) if his hand goes any lower on Little Grey's back.

He's not jealous. He's not.

* * *

Screw this. This feeling that's Not Jealousy is eating away at him; he's pretty sure he's developed an ulcer in the 20 minutes that it takes for the boy to go from being a complete stranger to Lexie's new BFF. They're sitting flush against each other in the booth, an arm resting above the space on her shoulder.

He glances around. Nobody is left that could possibly rat him out to Derek. Maybe he could…What? What could he possibly do that he wouldn't get shit for later?

"Dr. Sloan."

Fuck. Shoot him now.

His eyes shift to one side. She's standing next to his barstool, empty pitcher in hand, hair up in a neat ponytail. Her lips are curved into something that looks suspiciously like an amused grin. She's laughing at him. He can feel it.

"Little Grey," he grunts. She's standing so close, her arm brushes against his as she hands Joe the empty pitcher. "Isn't it time for you to be heading home?" It comes out rough and semi-accusatory and he instantly bites his tongue.

She picks up on it. Of course. "Isn't it time for you to be seeing a nurse in an on call room?" An eyebrow shoots up as she quickly retorts.

He guesses his face mustn't be all that friendly at the moment because she's got that deer-in-the-headlights look going on. "I-I'm so sorry. Really, _really_sorry. I don't know where that came from," she's vigorously shaking her head. "It just came out – I didn't mean – that was completely out of line and I just –"

His fingertips reach out and hang loosely on her elbow, the one set on the countertop. Cool skin touches the pads of his fingers. "Settle down, Grey." He can't help but smile at her pinked cheeks. "Now," he drawls, his thumb roaming circles on her arm. Slow. He should stop. He knows this. Derek. His best friend. He _needs_ to stop.

But.

He already has his hands on her. Sort of. It's still skin on skin contact, and that's something. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your boyfriend?" He tries to sound teasing, but the word leaves an ugly taste in his mouth and it's a wonder they come out in anything more than a half growl.

Her eyebrows knit together. "Boyfriend?"

He motions towards the interns, at the prepubescent-testosterone-lacking _boy._

"Luke? You think _Luke_ is my boyfriend?" She sounds so offended by the suggestion it's almost funny. "Are you kidding me?"

Disbelief and surprise (maybe even a little relief, something he's not going to admit to) sets in his face and he smiles. Widely. With teeth. "Is that so, Grey?"

"The dermatology intern? Really? I mean, I know you think I'm pathetic and all that but – the _dermatology_ intern?" Her nose wrinkles up, and it only serves to excite him even more.

The tightening sitting in his chest loosens a little. "Could've fooled me," he shrugs a shoulder casually. His fingers still rest on her elbow, the pad of his thumb lazily sweeping back and forth on her inner arm.

"Ugh," she groans, "he's touchy. _A lot_. Like, excessively. It's not normal." She's semi glaring at the intern. He shifts to the edge of his seat. "It's easier to just play along. But no, _not_ my boyfriend." It's an exasperated sigh, one of the sweetest things he's heard.

It's all the permission he needs (not as if it would have stopped him). He doesn't think (not of Derek or anything else), only moves on instinct. She hasn't stopped talking as his hand moves up her arm –

"– and you know about – "

– over her shoulder –

"– the whole George thing. You know, I think he _really_ doesn't know –"

– and comes to rest on to the nape of her neck. It feels inexplicably soft against his calloused hands. Lexie stills and stares at him wide eyed, mouth open a little, like she can't believe what he's doing. And he can't blame her. He's leaning into her space, and he's _gone._

_So_ far gone.

"No?" he whispers.

"No," she breathes.

Mark leans in another inch; he likes crowding her, likes the thought that he's all she can see when he does. She's staring at him, still all wide-eyed innocence and he's got to admit, it turns him on a little. "Hmm," he murmurs. "Good." He draws in a deep breath and because he's too close, it's all her. Vanilla. It's the single best smell he's ever known. He feels her quiver underneath his hands and so help him God, he wants to feel it again.

– _the whole George thing. You know, I think he really doesn't know –_

His hand drops away.

"Good," he repeats, giving a small smile. He drops a crumpled fifty on the countertop and stands. He needs to distance himself from temptation.

He doesn't turn to look when he walks out; he doesn't need to have a photographic memory to memorize the expression on her face.

* * *

He's been fucking his way through the hospital again. The first time was to drive Addison out of his system.

This time–

Mark hasn't run into Lexie since the bar. He's made sure of that. Derek hasn't said anything and he isn't sure if it's because he doesn't know (although that doesn't seem likely) or he's choosing to ignore it. This chasm in his chest is growing, and there's an uneasy restlessness that comes with it. An agitating apprehension that's settled over his nerves like an invisible blanket and he is a constant ball of motion. To the hospital, to see the patient, to the nurse's station, to get a consult, to the on call room, back to the patient.

He is always moving, never slowing down. Doesn't think, doesn't breathe. His entire life now consists of ways best spent avoiding her. He doesn't seek her out.

And she doesn't come looking for him.

He thinks he hates her a little.

* * *

It's the brown bag that snags his eye.

On an unusually clear Seattle night, he's walking to the Archfield from the hospital (the interior of his Porsche is being conditioned) when her bag catches his attention in a restaurant window. She's sitting with O'Malley and laughing, a full out head-thrown-back-teeth-showing laugh. O'Malley is gesturing widely, hands going every which way exaggeratedly. Mark cracks a smile too. It's almost been two weeks since he's seen her and there's no other way to describe it but as a strange peace coursing through him as he looks at her.

He pictures himself sitting across from her, telling her about his conquests in the OR room. Talking about frivolous things like which bottle of wine to order or Meredith's hypothetical reaction to Derek's eventual proposal.

Little Grey would be happy.

He could do it, he thinks.

He forgets he hates her.

* * *

He sleeps with her. Of course he does. He's Mark Sloan, and it's under his job description.

To his credit though, he didn't breakdown and go to her. The circumstances were so mundane, it's questionable whether it actually happened or not.

Things always seem to happen to him in on call rooms.

He flung his scrub shirt off his body when he hears the click of a door opening from behind him. When he glances over his shoulder, Lexie is halfway in, a hand attached to the doorknob and a foot over the threshold. He turns fully, and watches perplexed as her eyes freely take inventory of him. Four feet separates them.

Three, as he takes a step forward. Two, as he takes another. Her eyes don't leave his and he sees no panic, no confusion as to what is about to happen.

There are no words, no hushed declarations of love, only silent moans as he kisses her. He pushes his body into hers, forcing her back until they hit the door with a hard thud. He should be gentler but, fuck. Her fingers are curled into his hair, and her teeth are nipping at his lips. He's devouring her, hands pressing her into him, his tongue burying itself farther into her mouth. And she's letting him. She's letting him touch her, and that brings a high of its own. Her nails rake down his scalp. Hard. He's given her no room and he still can't get enough.

Clothes are easy obstacles to overcome. Everything comes off (he wants to see all of her) and his hands roam, trying to memorize the curves of her body. When he finally slips inside her (still against the door because they haven't bothered to move) it's all quiet sighs and easy groans. One hand is supporting her leg around his hip; the other is splayed upon her flushed cheek (she is looking at him through half lidded eyes and it's nearly enough to make him lose control), the tip of his thumb dipping into the wet heat of her parted mouth. He thrusts slow and deep, drawing out every moment, every shudder.

Except she is impatient, and fiery and urging him to move faster, and he is still only a man so he complies. Call him an insecure bastard, but he needs to hear her say his name. He wants her to know this isn't impersonal for him. "Lexie," he gasps and she answers with low moan. "My name," he pants, "say my name."

Her tongue flicks at his thumb playfully, "no." There's mischievousness in her tone, as though she knows _exactly_ how much he needs to hear it.

Fingernails scrape down the back of his neck (no doubt they'll leave scratches), and when combined with the tightness in his balls, he's in no mood to be teased. "Lexie," (he pulls out almost entirely) and this time it's an actual growl, "don't fuck with me."

"Funny, I thought that was exactly what I was doing," there is brazenness to her he's never seen. Before he can retort with something equally as smart aleck-y, her hands draw his head in until his nose has made a home in her neck and her mouth attaches itself to his earlobe. _Sucking_.

And dear God, she's just ruined him for all other women.

"_Mark,_" like a reverent prayer, it falls from her lips into his ear. And he thrusts deeper because he never imagined it was possible for salvation to lie in such a sound.

"_Mark_," she repeats and he feels as though he has finally done right by a woman.

"_Mark_," she says a third time, and this is what makes him come.

This is _so_ far from impersonal.

* * *

Afterwards (because there is _always_ an after), he passes her panties to her and she gives him his shirt. There's a deafening silence and it doesn't feel quite like it should. He sits on the bottom bunk, watching her. Bra and panties go back on; then the light blue scrubs. Her movements are jerky and stiff, and she's being difficult by keeping her back to him.

He wants to say something, to ask what the hell this means and explain that for once he's not looking for an excuse to not get involved. "Lexie –"

"Thank you," she cuts him off. Short, curt and reeking of professionalism. Like he fucking asked her to scrub in on a surgery instead of plain fucking her.

His chest inflates with something sharp and angry. "Excuse me?"

She draws a deep breath and turns, leaning against the door. "Look," she begins; there's heaviness in her voice he's never heard before. "I-I'm not looking for anything long-term. So, don't worry. I just needed – It doesn't matter. You don't do relationships and I'm – Anyways, thank you." She tries a little too hard to sound casual, smiles a little forcefully as she tucks an errand strand of hair behind an ear.

This isn't the way Mark pictured it in his head.

"Right. So, uh, I need to check on Mrs. Shanuri. I think I'll go. Do that right now." She's off and out the door at an almost run.

Lexie Grey just rejected him.

This was _not_ the way it was supposed to happen.


	2. Chapter 2

It's currently 2:33AM, and she's lying awake staring at an abnormal growth on the ceiling (with her luck it's probably mould, and she's going to have to live on the streets while they fumigate her apartment because, let's face it, Meredith wouldn't loan her a couch even if it was peed on) wondering when her life took a 180.

Up until turning 24, Lexie led a pretty normal life. Normal childhood, normal boyfriends (well, there is that one guy on April Fool's Day that she is half sure can't be called a boyfriend, even if he _did_ profess his "love" for her), normal family.

Then her mother got the hiccups. And everything went to shit from there.

Molly goes MIA, her father is apparently a secret recovering alcoholic (not so much emphasis on the _recovering_) and she finds out there's a half sister somewhere in the world in the form of Meredith Grey. But of course, the list doesn't end there. There's the casual sex (Alex Karev), the incredibly stupid intern cutting club (_seriously,_ what was she thinking?), Meredith hating her (she wasn't expecting fireworks and grand displays of family affection, but is it _really_ too much to ask for a polite conversation where it doesn't look like she's a cornered animal?), and who can forget the falling in love (and confessing to) with her "best friend" (his words, not hers) gone roommate, George?

And the cherry to top that sweet sundae? She slept with her Attending (undoubtedly _the_ best sex of her life). Still. He had been staring at her funny for the past couple of weeks which she chalked up to his amazement (hers, really) that he managed to befriend an intern (or it could just be indigestion, who knows?). Never in a million years she would have guessed he had an "itch" to scratch with _her_. The man is practically a porn star!

Mark Sloan – Manwhore extraordinaire: Bringing mind-blowing orgasms to a vagina near you.

Jesus. It's karma. It has to be (Meredith would get a kick out of this). She gets off scot free in her childhood and now, it's coming back to bite her in the ass. _Of course._ She lets out a groan, grabbing the pillow beside her and burying her head into it. Maybe by some fluke chance she'll accidently suffocate herself, saving her the humiliation of facing Dr. Sloan tomorrow.

If only.

* * *

He sees her enter the on-call room from across the hall and moves quickly with large strides. Mark's fairly certain she's been avoiding him for the past three days, and that only aggravates his irritation with her. He slips inside to find her face down in a pillow, legs over the edge of the bed.

"Trying to kill yourself there, Little Grey?" he asks, amused for a brief moment, then for more than a moment when she jerks upright nearly hitting her head on the bottom of the top bunk.

"Oh, uh. I…" she sputters, and it's really quite funny how easily she flusters. He grins, waiting to see what she's going to say. "Sleep," Lexie blurts out, cheeks tingeing a light red. "I was just, uh, trying to sleep, Dr. Sloan."

He frowns now, at the formal use of his name. "Mark," he corrects.

"I…I'm sorry?" her eyebrows crinkle in confusion (much like the time at the bar) but he's trying his damnedest not to melt, so he maintains a stoic face.

"Call me Mark," he says dryly.

"Oh." Then, "oh! I don't think that's entirely appropriate –"

"Seeing as how you were wearing me on the inside of your thighs a few days ago, how about we cut through the professsional bullshit?" That shuts her up instantly and he feels a surge of tiny satisfaction. He lets a beat pass before asking "Are you avoiding me?"

She gets the deer-in-the-headlights-expression again, and he guesses whatever she had been expecting him to say, it wasn't that. "Dr. Sloan –"

"_Mark_," he bites out. It matters more than it should that she call him by his name. "Say my name, damn it." Her cheeks immediately flush, and he's not sure if it's because of anger or from the memory of the last time he said it.

"I'm not avoiding you," she juts her chin out in defiance and it doesn't escape him that she doesn't address him by _any_ name.

He walks right up to her, hooks his hands on the frame of the upper bunk and leans in close. Really close. "You're not?" he breathes on her, giving her credit for not backing down. Although, when her eyes flicker shortly down to his mouth, then back up again, he smirks. She still wants him. "So it's not you ducking out of elevators, and heading in opposite directions in the hallways, or hiding in patients' room?" He once stood outside Mr. Kappa's room for 25 minutes waiting for her, only finally moving when the nurses paged him a 911 for the third time.

"I –"

"Go out with me," Mark cuts in, half-joking. Except, not really (completely terrified, actually).

"What? No! I'm not going to –"

"You like me," he interrupts teasingly, going back to smirking at her.

She huffs in a breath, "I do _not_," lips pouting, and it's all he can do to refrain from tugging at them with his own.

"You _do_."

"I can assure you," she begins haughtily, and he grins in her face, "I do not since _I'm_ not the one following people around." Her lips curve upwards in triumph before something akin to mortification over takes it.

The silence that follows is oppressive.

She knows.

She knows, she knows, she knows.

And he stares. And she stares back. And he is _done_ with this conversation. He pushes off the bed, about to walk briskly out of the room but she is faster, grabbing a fistful of his scrubs before he can even straighten up. "I'm sorry," she exclaims, and he is inclined to forgive her just so her eyes don't pop out of her head.

"Nothing to be sorry about, Grey," Mark grumbles, "it's not entirely your fault as to how I …feel," he finishes distastefully. This is beyond uncomfortable, he doesn't do _feelings_.

He complies when she pulls him down (her fingers are still twisted in his scrub shirt) closer to her. "Ask me," she says with a simple smile.

Mark can't help but grimace, "rejecting me the first time wasn't enough, Little Grey? Need to do a re-enactment?"

"Shut up," she laughs, before angling in to snag his bottom lip. He lets out an appreciative moan at the unexpected (but not unwelcomed) contact. Pulling back half an inch, she murmurs against his lips "ask me, _Mark_."

He can't deny her this time. "Go out with me, Lexie."

The corners of mouth tilt up as she utters, "okay."

* * *

Dr. Shepherd finds out five and a half weeks into the relationship. It slips out of her mouth in front of one of the other interns (apparently, referring to an Attending by their given name translates into you sleeping with said Attending) who blabs to the nurses and the whole thing blows up from there.

So when she runs into her not-so-secret-anymore-boyfriend's (ex?) best friend in the supply closet, the natural thing to do is hastily blurt out, "don't hate him," while awkwardly holding four bags of IV.

He quirks an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, Dr. Grey?"

"Um, I-I know that Ma–Dr. Sloan is your best friend and, you know, you told him not to do anything to me," which she's _really_ glad that he doesn't listen to because Mark Sloan does some very blissful not-so-appropriate things to her. "But it's not what you think and he's an adult. And I'm an adult. We're both consenting adults so …" she loses momentum when she notices how very _un_affected he is by her half-ramble, half-speech. "Don't hate him?" she finishes lamely (and it's really no wonder that her boyfriend called her pathetic once).

Dr. Shepherd stares at her a moment longer, blue eyes a striking resemblance to Mark's, hands in the pockets of his white coat. He turns around to quietly close the door, and Lexie just _knows_ whatever he's going to say next will not bode well. She waits impatiently (because getting to the demise of hers and Mark's relationship really can't happen soon enough) as he seems to search for the right words. "He's done this once before, you know," a beat passes. "With Addison."

He leaves the rest unsaid, but it doesn't need to be said when she knows exactly what he means; she's heard the old gossip. Mark cheated on her.

Dr. Shepherd cocks his head to this side, "How do you think this is going to end, Lexie?" He's trying to be gentle, she can tell, by the way his voice drops an octave lower to a soothing tone he uses with terminal patients.

It's a question that stays with her as she walks out of the closet, and the through the halls of the hospital.

* * *

Mark has never been clingy; it doesn't fit his definition of a Man. So, when Lexie excitedly asks him to go clubbing with her and her intern friends, he declines (partly because he can't stand the little brats).

The night she's gone, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He aimlessly flips through television channels, tries to do some research on a new methods of doing Otoplasties, eats some sushi from the day before (regrets it later when he's throwing it back up) and is constantly checking the clock to wait for what can pass as an appropriate amount of time before he can call her. She gets off at 9:30PM and is going straight from there. She mentioned she'd try to stop by the hotel if she wasn't 'too shitfaced to know the difference between his ass and someone else's.'

10:47PM.

It's late enough, he decides. He reaches for his cell three times, finally picks it up and dials her number on the fourth try. It rings. And rings. And rings. The voicemail goes off, and what the _hell_ is he doing? The beep comes and goes and he manages to get out a strangled, "hey, it's me."

Silence.

"I just…I miss you," he sighs into the phone and hopes he doesn't sound as pathetic as he feels. "Okay. I guess I'll see you later." The cell is forgotten on the couch as Mark collapses on the bed and wonders when he became such a needy mess of a man.

* * *

These days, she's constantly late for rounds. He can't help it; he can't seem to get enough of her.

"Yang would put me on scut duty regardless," she says as she slowly rocks above him, his hands tangled in the brown strands of her hair, and so he tries not to worry. Still, though. He's waking her up two, three times a night, or dragging her into supply closets and empty examination rooms.

It's also more than that.

Her medical textbooks lie haphazardly on the floor (along with her clothes), tagged in a rainbow of colours for notes and research, while the green tote bag used for sleepovers at his place sits next to the door. Her _Herbal Essences_ shampoo finds a home in his shower, and neon blue toothbrush she uses stands beside his razor (which she sometimes uses for her legs, to his annoyance) on the sink.

It's the way she smiles at him when he reconstructs a pair of ears; the look she wears on her face as he can feel her putting him up on a pedestal (he shouldn't encourage it, he knows, but when she's looking at him like he has performed some impossible task beyond the realm of mortals, there's a pulling sensation in his stomach that's too damn addictive to give up). It's the waking up in a tangled heap of limbs and sheets with the smell of her perfume filling his pores. It's her wearing his shirts, her cell phone and pager sitting on his nightstand, and the box of tampons in his washroom.

It's the fact that she's not Addison.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes he wholeheartedly surprises her in a way that leaves her temporarily stunned, too perplexed for words.

There are days when she wakes up in his hotel room on his king sized bed enveloped in his shirt, to find him already sitting at the table. The mornings he's working, he's dresses in slacks and a comfortable dress shirt (on his days off, it's only pyjama bottoms). One hand holds the day's paper, the other stopped halfway between a bowl of Captain Crunch (it took her two weeks to get him to try it; he hasn't let go of it since) and his mouth, his eyes fixated on the sports section.

She must blink too loud or something, because he always catches her staring. "Hey," he'll rumble, barely above the threshold of hearing. Usually he grins and his eyes do this thing where they go soft and unfocused when he looks at her. It's tender and delicate and a hundred other things Mark Sloan is not.

Every time, she thinks "Who _is_ this man?" Then a shot of guilt fills her because her mother taught her better than to listen to gossip. "What you don't see with your eyes, Lexie, don't witness with your mouth." So she climbs atop him (still in the chair) in her boy shorts and his shirt, his eyes crinkling just the slightest at the corners in tune to his smile, and places a sloppy kiss on his warm lips in silent apology. "Hey," she whispers back.

The smile turns feral, predatory; and surgery or no surgery, Lexie finds herself bracing her hands against the table behind her as Mark slides in. Slow, almost carelessly (lazy morning sex is second only to shower sex for him, she has learned. Yet another unexpected thing).

There's also a quiet panic, one that has her on her toes, ready to run in the other direction. Because _this_, this _thing_ he keeps looking at her with, she's not ready for. It's far too early with Derek Shepherd's words engraved in her mind (her photographic memory won't let her forget). But she doesn't want to ruin his good mood (or her own), so she squishes it down and focuses on the feel of his hair under her fingertips.

_This is it_, she thinks. _This is the one that's going to break your heart._

* * *

"Lexie!"

She groans. She has just stepped foot outside the hospital for the first time in 30 hours and whatever it is, it can wait. So she keeps walking.

"Lex – Hey! Wait! Lexie!"

She's almost to her car. Another 20 feet and she's home free. But she and the person chasing her are obviously _not_ on the same wavelength as a hand settles on her shoulder.

_So close._

"Hey."

"What?" she snaps as she turns around. "Oh." It's George.

Well then.

"Is everything all right?" he's wearing his puppy-dog face of concern. She hasn't spoken to him since…Well, since before Mark.

"Yeah, I'm just…tired. What's up?" She gets a bit of a pulling sensation in her stomach (it's just nerves), they haven't really talked since The Confession or the public announcement of her and Mark; not to mention, the few times she's actually been at their apartment he was never there.

"Do you maybe want to, I don't know, grab dinner or something?" That's when she notices he's dressed in his street clothes, holding his bag over one shoulder. "Macaroni and cheese? _Casablanca_? Huh? What do you say?"

She hesitates; Mark is supposed to meet her for dinner in less than an hour.

But.

"I miss having you as a friend, Lexie." She hears the same miserable tone she imagines herself to have in her head, and that cinches it.

"Sure. Of course," she grins.

It's George. Mark will understand.

* * *

By their seventh week he's learns not everyday is sunshine and sex (to his bitter disappointment about the latter).

In his opinion (and he has the right one), O'Malley is getting too much face time with Lexie. When he tries to bring it up, she insists they're just getting their friendship back on track, but dinners and drinks and late night movie marathons (_Casablanca is a classic_, she pointedly tells him) is too much 'getting back on track' for his liking. She's all smiles and _Ha-ha, George told me the funniest thing the other day_and _you'll never believe what kind of surgery George is scrubbing in on!_He wants to be a good boyfriend and be happy for her (he tries, really), but it's hard to be genuine when all he wants to do is rearrange the twerp's face.

Then, there are The Thoughts. The lingering doubts in the back of his mind.

"A _friend_, he's a _friend_," she stresses and he believes it. But two days later, he'll see the two huddled together over a chart and maybe he's being paranoid, but isn't O'Malley standing just bit _too_ close for a 'friend'? And he fails to see what's so funny about O'Malley's talking banana joke that has Lexie doubling over in laughter.

Humour is the first thing women look for in men, he read in a magazine once. So he figures there's nothing to worry about. O'Malley is _not_ a funny guy.

Except to Lexie.

He's being irrational, he tries to convince himself (not altogether successfully). But there's something about people of the opposite sex being best friends (especially when only one is involved in a relationship) that never seems to remain platonic. He should know.

Mark makes a mental note to remind O'Malley Lexie is with him now. And he doesn't share his woman.

* * *

Dr. Yang's assigned her to the free clinic and the day has been unbearably, although characteristically, _slow_. That is, until George stumbles in with Mt. St. Helen erupting on his face.

"George!" Dr. Stevens is a blur of white and blond as she pushes Lexie aside, rushing to his side. Both hands are covering his nose, but the blood still manages to seep through the crevices of his fingers. All the interns have stopped to lend an ear and eye to the predicament. Somehow, through Dr. Stevens' fussing, George meets her shocked stare with one brown eye and enunciates three distinct words.

"Your fucking boyfriend."

* * *

He isn't really sure how it happened. At least, that's the story he's going to tell Lexie.

How was he supposed to know his fist was planning on making contact with O'Malley's face? And, even if he _had_ known, why would he have stopped it? The man (he uses the term loosely) has the nerve to tell him he's not _good_ enough for her and Mark is just supposed to lie down and take it? Like hell. If there's anything that Mark Sloan takes lying down (sometimes even standing up), it's Lexie giving him bl–

"You're an idiot," he hears Callie mutter under her breath.

"Shut up."

She stops bandaging his hand to look up and glare. "She's going to chew you out for this. You know that, right?"

"Stop being judging and wrap my damn hand."

She scoffs and mutters under her breath again. He doesn't care. There's already another angry woman (most likely) to worry about.

* * *

He walks into a hotel room that's absent of her green tote bag. Grabs an Adam's _Utopias_ (at $100 a bottle, it's more than worth it) from a cabinet that no longer houses her Captain Crunch cereal (he was supposed to pick up a box two days ago). Places his watch on the nightstand that's missing its usual cell phone and sparkle pager. Discards his shirt and belt on a on floor that's clean of her textbooks and walks into a bathroom that's saturated with the scent of her shampoo. As he washes the day's weariness of his face, he tries not to give too much thought to the disappearance of her toothbrush (his razor is also no longer there, he notes).

He sits, slacks hanging loosely on his hips, facing the balcony, beer in hand. He knows where she is tonight. Her apartment. With O'Malley. _Their _apartment. Probably consoling him, snuggling on the couch, stroking his hair. Trailing her fingers over his face, the broken nose. Skimming his lips, slipping them inside his –

He growls in frustration.

It wasn't like this with Addison. He never had to worry about The Other Guy (he _was_ The Other Guy). It was different; in some ways, easier. Derek had just left, and she needed him to be strong. For her. For them both. And he was.

Until the Baby. His unborn child.

Mark downs half the bottle in one go. Some things are best forgotten through the haze of alcohol.

* * *

Some time later, the sound of a magnetic lock opening catches his attention; he's surprised she has come back tonight. He gets up to face her. Even though he knows this meeting will most likely be a heated exchange, he hasn't seen her all day and something inside aches at the thought.

She closes the door with a soft click, not coming in farther than the two steps she already is.

There's a moment where he entertains the thought of pretending to look sorry, but it's quickly forced out because he's not. He's not, and he refuses to apologize when it was them he was standing up for.

Lexie breaks the truce. "What were you thinking?" Every syllable, every letter is filled with hard disappointment, and it almost reaches a place inside him where he's willing to swallow his pride. Almost. There's anger too, and he goes with what's familiar.

He schools his face to give nothing away, but his voice comes out gruff anyways. "I was thinking that I was taking a stand for myself. And you."

"By punching _George_?"

"He said –" Mark starts angrily, but Lexie, it seems, is angrier.

"I _know_ what he said, Mark. Are you really that insecure that you would think – that you would actually believe him?" her words are caked with disbelief.

He stares at a fixed spot over her shoulder, this is never a conversation he can have eye-to-eye with her. "What am I suppose to think when my girlfriend spends more time with her male best friend than she does with me?" It's an old argument by now, a sore point for them both.

She shakes her head vehemently. "He's just a friend." He snorts loudly. "He is," she reiterates, the irritation leaking through.

"And how long before that changes?" he hates the vulnerability the question comes out with.

"You think –" she breaks off, a look of hurt settling on her face, "you think I would cheat on you?"

"I think anyone is capable of anything, Lex." It's a bit painful for him to say, this doubt in his mind.

"Oh." She looks away, to the side. "I see."

She clearly doesn't believe him. So he asks the one question he has kept buried in his mind. "When I fucked you that first time in the on-call room, something had happened with George, hadn't it? That's why you didn't push me away. Something happened, and you needed," he licks his lips, "you needed to _forget_."

"Mark…"

He ignores the pleading in her voice. "What was it, Lexie? What happened that was so terrible that that's the only way you would let me touch you?"

"It wasn't like that –"

"No? Then enlighten me," he is being sarcastic and crass and being all the things Mark Sloan is rumoured to be.

The seconds tick by.

He breathes heavily through his nose; he's asking questions he's not sure he can handle the answers to, and Lexie, she stands still. An absolute statue.

Then.

"I told him I loved him."

The world disappears from beneath his feet, and through all the situations that had scampered through his brain, this one hadn't. He snorts. "_Of course_." It is a sneer as much as it is something irrevocably being damaged inside him. "_Of course_."

"It wasn't like that. It wasn't. In the on-call room, it wasn't anyone else," she closes the gap between them, reaches out, "it was you, _only_ you. I swear."

He flinches. When her hands wrap around his arm, he flinches. She shrinks back instantly, her cheeks wet. Her admission is more of a blow than he'd like. Not to his ego, no. But to his self-worth. Mark will always be second, he learns that now.

"_Mark_," it is a desperate cry, broken and ragged.

He decides then. He'll settle. If it means having Lexie in his life, he's willing to be second, third, fourth, fifth. Whatever it takes. He's willing to settle.

He draws her to him, entangling his hands in her hair, and kisses her. If it means he's the one that gets to calm her, he'll settle. He picks her up, her legs automatically manoeuvring around his waist, carrying her to the bed. If it means having her beneath him every night, he'll settle.

"Mark," it is tiny, and unsure, so Lexie, that his heart swells. He kisses her again. And again. And again.

If it means getting to hear his name on her lips…he's willing to settle.


End file.
